


between the crosses

by honeydowo



Series: strawberry lemonade (and things will be okay again) [3]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Best Friends, Blood and Injury, Bonding, Canon-Typical Violence, Coping, Explosions, Fluff and Angst, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Panic Attacks, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29473203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeydowo/pseuds/honeydowo
Summary: A world torn to pieces - bits of ash and soot coating heaving lungs, freckles of blood sparkling on upturned grounds, the feeling of the tide closing in — a world torn to pieces, and two friends in the wreckage, taking in the distantly close crater.–Tommy and Tubbo, in the before and the after; two friends, in the slow process of regaining trust.Between the crosses, they shall learn to heal.
Relationships: Tommyinnit & Toby Smith
Series: strawberry lemonade (and things will be okay again) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2110977
Comments: 6
Kudos: 53





	between the crosses

**Author's Note:**

> HEYY BESTIES IT'S ME AGAIN.  
> so there's a panic attack in this, as well as mentions of blood, death and general violence - nothing graphic on that front tho! if any of this upsets you, proceed with caution!!

> Never such innocence,
> 
> Never before or since,
> 
> As changed itself to past
> 
> Without a word - the men
> 
> Leaving the gardens tidy,
> 
> The thousands of marriages
> 
> Lasting a little while longer:
> 
> Never such innocence again.
> 
> **_-MCMXIV, by Philip Larkin_ **

  
  


_Mate, just suck it up. It's not bad, Wilbur will stay here with you!, Phil says, and his map is folded neatly into his backpack pocket, fully packed. Tommy wonders if there's enough space to fit himself in the seams of it, to sew himself into his father's adventures. Between the look in Techno's eyes and the rage in Wilbur's shaking fist, there must be a place carved out for him._

_Tommy cries, and Tommy pleads, and Tommy gets left behind anyway._

_Suck it up, Wilbur says, in a ravine thousands of metres beyond the surface, or in a caravan smelling of blood, or in a family home left to rot. You'll never be president. Stop being so impulsive, it's your fault we have to fight. You're so annoying, stop crying, it can't hurt that much._

_Tommy smiles, and Tommy pretends he's fine, and Tommy pulls through._

_Suck it up, Tubbo declares, you should just suck it up. Don't you get it Tommy? You're a liability. A selfish, disgraceful liability of a vice president._

_The sun is setting and the red light spills onto the ground like fresh blood; is it terrible to look into your best friends eyes and see nothing but the harsh gun metal glimmer of violence?_

_Tommy screams, and Tommy fights, and Tommy gets exiled anyways._

_Suck it up, spits Dream, and Tommy looks on blankly - there's no use fighting. His bones clack beneath the flesh, and he urgently feels like exposing them to the sunlight; bleaching them to perfection._

_Instead, he hands Dream his armour. And he sucks it up._

\---

Tommy used to be happy, once.

It's a faded memory now, as looking through a fogged up window - all messy shapes and blurry lines, remembering what outside is supposed to look like but not being able to grasp it. 

Happiness is as elusive as those shapes, as fleeting as the cold touch of a friend with a painted smile - it remains hidden beneath the deafening darkness of more recent thoughts.

Tommy might've been happy once, but with those times swallowed by beckoning craters and fingers blackened by gunpowder, nothing much remains.

(East, east - his compass spins, yet never changes direction. Is there something to be found, beyond the smoldering chrome of another home turned crater? Is happiness truly condemned to be but a vision of the past? East, his compass pleads. And Tommy, defiance as a final glimmer of a fire, heads north.) 

\---

The first time he sees Tubbo again, splinters of ice piercing his heart and billowing wind haunting his soul, he calls his best friend a monster.

Wrapped in an arctic coat and hair braided in delicate tails, he reckons he does quite mean it.

And with the sun in his eyes and echoes of lava grazing his skin, he stares at what once was his best friend and sees only the shadow of monochromatic horns and golden coins - although Tubbo's small, horrified gasp shatters the image for just a second.

But then, shouldn't Tubbo be horrified? With Techno's hand heavy on his shoulder and the static pressure of scarred flesh being observed, he's sure they can all see that he's not the one they had exiled, all those months ago.

A monster of their own creation, Tommy stands, ice on his eye lashes and fire in his tightened fist - child of a nation built on bloodshed.

 _Don't be the next Wilbur,_ Tubbo had once said; now, the irony of his long coat and acid words does not escape Tommy, but who's Tubbo to judge? 

Tubbo, and his twisting horns, Tubbo and his country, more important than a friend. Tubbo, and his suit. A monster. 

He scoffs at the president's tears.

_(Weaknesses, all weaknesses- Impressions of Dream's punches echo on his cheek, crystallized by tears.)_

Tubbo reaches out for him, and Tommy dances out of his reach.

There's nothing for him here anymore.

(Right there, right there - his compass stands completely still, beckoning to move, to embrace. With defiance as a memory of drowning, Tommy turns and follows Technoblade.) 

\--- 

And then there's the pit.

A mockery of craters, armour turned to ash by explosive hate - a parody of his fears, his hurt, standing in the middle of it.

_("You've done this", they scream, "This is your fault" and Tommy refuses to cower, to flinch; he's not a child anymore. Not to them, not to war.)_

People are screaming, and Tommy joins in, and when the time comes, he follows the needle ever pointing towards another's heart.

Techno roars something of betrayal, and Tommy smiles.

Because his brother really does not know anything at all; pathetic, calling this a betrayal, when Tommy's dreams are haunted by blackened fingertips and the sound of explosions, when his claustrophobia makes enclosed spaces a coffin in fear of another _Final Control Room_.

But somehow Eret, that traitor, had been right.

_(Nothing is ever meant to be. Nothing is ever built to last.)_

As monuments crumble and cities turn to dust, as names become smudged with the ink of time, all is timeless in that it's breaking - wars forgotten in the fraction of a heartbeat for a universe ever expanding.

As history becoming warped, as fairy tales mocking the past, Tommy and Techno shall fall apart, until history will only know their story as one of betrayal.

After all, nuances are lost in the black and white painting history inevitably has to become; when there's no discernible _hero_ and _villain_ , grayscale motions tint the actions of those who can never dream of being remembered. 

Techno screams of betrayal, and Tommy looks at Tubbo and smiles.

They know, after all, what betrayal truly means.

\--- 

Technoblade knows nothing of betrayal.

Bright fireworks and green shirts - he knows nothing of loss.

And so, he shall unleash hell.

\---

"What do you know of betrayal?", Tommy screams, something furious, late day's sun in his eyes and explosions tearing at his coat. 

Techno roars a response back, barely audible over the sound of death from all around - echoing and reverberating, the downfall of a nation. 

"I died for this nation! Twice! And you- you destroy it! You know nothing of death, or of sacrifice! Do you even know what I've given for this? What I've lost for this- this dream? I've only ever wanted a home, but you can't let me have that, no, because governments are evil! I hate you Technoblade, I hate you so fucking much- Why-" 

There's no response. 

L'Manberg burns in the colours of a perfect rising sun for just a second, before all turns ashen and gray. 

Tommy falls to his knees, pebbles digging into his skin and dirt marring his wounds; and mourns the death of a home, a brother, a childhood. Tears stain bloodied cheeks, and the universe shifts into its new course.

L'Manberg is gone, and so is Wilbur, and so is Tommy, the version of him that's hopeful and young and so much more happy and- 

L'Manberg is gone, and in its wake - a crater.

Tommy is gone, and in his wake - a void. 

No one mourns his death. 

(Phil tells Ranboo to leave. Phil takes Ranboo home. Tommy stays on the ground, alone, the ghost of blackened fingertips gracing his cheek on the grave of his brother. No one comes to save Theseus, in the end, no matter how hard he tries or how many people he saves. Because Theseus was doomed to die from the very start, even when there was nothing but him and his brother and his friend, a nation built on hopes and dreams, death was never his to escape. Theseus sits in the rubble of a home he failed to save, and welcomes a familiar friend in the ruins.) 

So Tommy sits, and awaits the final strike. 

\--- 

The fall of home was inevitable this time, Tommy reckons and so stays still while the broken remnants of his family tear his only home apart. 

Nothing of Wilbur remains, now, and Tommy does not allow himself to grieve.

_(Tears. Weaknesses. Be strong, Tommy, or no one will ever care for you.)_

\---

Tubbo, sometimes, wishes he would've died on November 16th.

He doesn't try to hurt himself, doesn't contemplate the easy escape of death in present tense - but sometimes, he'll look at the abandoned graveyard and remember what remains after the drum beat of explosions with a sort of longing.

There's no particular reason for it, the still aching burns on his face remind him, it's probably perfectly normal to have those thoughts every once in a while! 

_(It has to be. He has to be normal. He can't end up like Wilbur, driven insane by his twisted sense of ownership, or worse, like Schlatt, drunk on power.)_

And really, things are going as good as they could probably go! 

He's fine.

He's fine when Quackity throws the first bottle at him, because it was just the heat of the moment, right? And he apologized right after! Schlatt never used to do that! 

He's fine when Niki starts getting angrier and angrier, her hugs more suffocating than comforting - but she listens to his problems, still, and gives him advice. Wilbur never used to do that after… Well. Tubbo can't quite remember.

He's fine when he sees the pillar build up into the clouds in Logstedshire, sees the familiar, cradling destruction of explosions wrecking the land, because Tommy wouldn't do such a thing! He escaped, probably, and must've built the tower to throw off Dream! 

And he's still fine when his best friend looks him in the eyes and calls him a monster.

He probably deserved it, Tubbo reasons, probably had it coming. It's not like he hasn't fucked up enough already.

With Wilbur as a golden idol behind him, forever unreachable on Sisyphos' mountain and Schlatt in front, wooden planks lining the soft decline, Tubbo knows he's destined to fail.

There's no winning for the child president, no happy ending or peace to be found in old declarations and rebuilt cities - only desperate, scrambling attempts and the crushing destruction of innocence. 

He supposes he's a little happy, when Tommy picks him over Technoblade, even though he knows it won't change anything in the end. L'Manberg will fall, and this time Tubbo will make sure to die with it, because no captain ever abandons the sinking ship. If he can't be Wilbur, he can at least die like him; like a president, like someone important. 

Although the scale of the destruction teeters just on the edge of impossible, and the smoke and gunpowder make his chest seize up in some sort of mockery remembrance, Tubbo makes sure to throw himself in front of Tommy as often as possible; but it seems Technoblade isn't aiming to kill, for the first time in his life. There's mercy in his forcefully shaking hands, clear intent in his faulty aim - he will not kill another brother. And so Tubbo will not die either. The thought makes him choke up in a way just left of sadness; dying should be so easy, so how could he fail even that? 

He destroyed this country, and yet it shall not grant him the mercy of death.

(The ship sinks. The captain swims to shore.)

When it's all over, Tubbo goes searching for Tommy. It's always been like this, in a twisted, half-remembered way; there's a fight, there's a gaping void where there once resided something important, and Tubbo goes searching for Tommy.

He finds him, because he always does, and they sit in silence until the morning sun paints the remnants of their dream a messy red, like bloodied knuckles. 

The tear tracks on Tommy's face are a softer shade, like freshly bloomed poppies of grief tearing through his cheeks. Ash clings to his hollow face. 

Tommy stands, and takes in the wreckage. In one, swift motion he extends a careful hand towards Tubbo. 

_(Olive branches. Can you trust me again?)_

He takes Tommy's hand, over the smouldering crater and ashen memories of home, and almost smiles.

"It's over now, isn't it?" 

It almost feels a little like freedom, intoxicating and punch-drunk, like the beginning of history not prewritten and peace not threatened. It almost feels like being young again, like chocolate milk and sticky jam coating curious fingers.

And Tommy nods, but Tubbo can tell he doesn't really mean it.

\---

They start living in the embassy, for a little while.

Tubbo dances around Tommy with careful words and hesitant eyes, never daring to step over the line keeping their worlds at arms length - a trench of undisclosed memories simmers beneath, neatly hidden out of sight.

And it's fine! Tubbo's fine! He really is! 

That is until, of course, Tommy gains some semblance of consciousness- the gray filter on his eyes lifts, one morning, when the first spring sun drags itself into the sky, and he takes his first breath as a new man.

And when the grayscale curtain of this world falls away, it reveals a technicolor of emotions beneath - Tommy turns, and hatred mixes with unadulterated love in his eyes. 

Tubbo knows he's at fault. Tubbo knows, and at the same time, knows nothing at all.

"We need to talk.", Tommy says, and so they do.

\---

It's still cold outside when they seat themselves on the bench - Tubbo can almost see past versions of themselves repeating phantom motions before him; somehow, it always leads back to this: Sunsets on a single bench on a hill, breathes softly mingling and thoughts discarded into the open air.

Revolution, rebellion, betrayal - a bench at the centre of the universe, and two boys entangled by fate. 

"Why'd you do it?", Tommy asks softly.

He's still facing the setting sun, rays of light painting his face a golden caricature of the boy who'd built this bench, once, all those eons ago.

"I-" 

Tubbo stops, thinks. There's a million words he should be saying, yet the truth lay splayed out in the grass before them already. And Tubbo, gutted and discarded like a rag doll, only echoes the words he's been told.

"Because I'm a coward." 

Tommy scoffs. 

"I didn't want to hear what Dream told you to think. I want to hear why my best friend-", Tommy chokes on the word, and swiftly moves to wipe away the glassy diamonds of his grief, "Why you exiled me." 

Tubbo takes a deep breath. The world moves too fast, and then not at all, and he's somewhere in the middle of it - in a constant cycle of explaining, in a constant cycle of saying nothing at all. 

"I, well, I thought I couldn't be like Wilbur or Schlatt and they all chose their personal grievances over the wellbeing of their nation. I thought the only way to separate myself, to not end up as tyrannical as them, I had to choose L'Manberg over everything else." 

He laughs wetly, and gestures at the area that lay somewhere behind them, swallowed by darkness still.

"Looks like I was wrong. I fucked up either way, so it doesn't matter." 

A beat of silence.

"I hated you, you know?", Tommy whispers into the dark space between them, as if he were telling a secret, "I blamed you for everything. Everything that happened in exile. Everything Dream… did to me, all the loneliness, I blamed you. I needed a scapegoat, so I hated you. But… I could never truly give you up. _You're_ my best friend, not Dream, not Technoblade. And Prime knows I played right into their cards by hating you. But you didn't fuck this country up. That was Schlatt and- And Wilbur." 

Teary-eyed and drunk on darkness, Tubbo moves to sit a little closer to Tommy. In the dark, his tears reflect the red shimmer of sunlight like blood pouring from his eyes.

"Can you ever forgive me?" 

Tommy smiles tentatively.

"I think I already have, big man." 

The night dances on, and two hearts start beating in tandem again - against the backdrop of a crater, life shall continue to flourish.

\--- 

Life is a little hesitant, afterwards, slowly creeping on a steady path to normalcy - Tubbo laughs more, and Tommy gains a little of the mischievous edge to his smile back.

They rest, they laugh. They live, ultimately, despite all that has come to pass. 

Some days, the sound of Cat and Mellohi echo in Tommy's shaking hands and quivering stance; ever dancing along to the rhythm of a life long lost - the past taints what remains of the future with four-four time.

Some days, Tubbo moves in perfect squared steps, devouring the pieces in his way; the king places himself in check, at last, because no direction holds another friendly piece.

_(Checkmate looms on the horizon like a sandstorm. What move will you make, little pawn, can you reach the end of the board? No longer a king, your sacrifice is doomed to mean nothing. Checkered lands hold no answers to your questions.)_

There's a move in chess, guaranteeing victory in only four turns. With three crosses on a flag and three lives taken, a singular piece remains.

And Tubbo moves in familiar diagonals - the pawn moves from his position, and no one is there to watch the checkmate.

There's a move in chess, and there's a little house in a hill, and there's a perfect moment in history where all is encompassed in peace - and then Tubbo turns his back to walk away.

Tommy wakes up with a gasp.

There's fire and blood drenching his thoughts, and somewhere high above ground, a lone figure throws open his arms and longs to fall.

Gunpowder and dirt remain rooted in the bed of his nails, blackened fingertips reaching for a salvation that isn't there, will never be reached- 

_(A bloodied sword. Somehow, there's a dark satisfaction in seeing the devastation. He curls his fingers around a cold hand, and waits for the realization to settle in.)_

He should cut his nails.

It's a practical choice mostly, of course, since the little crescent moons his nails leave on unprotected skin feel a little too much like pain, a little too much like giving up.

"Tubbo?", Tommy calls out, "Do we have anything I can cut my nails with?"

He waits exactly five seconds (Tubbo doesn't usually take longer than three) before he starts to worry. It's odd, this sudden isolation, and a coldness presses into the cracks of his skin - usually, Tubbo clings to him with such ferocity they've resigned to sleep in the same bed.

_(Better for the nightmares. Tubbo never screams, but sometimes Tommy can still feel the uncomfortable stiffness of salt tearing at his shirt, where Tubbo might've buried his head.)_

Well, it's not like Tubbo has never left before. Sometimes even the clingiest of all needs some alone time, Tommy thinks, and smiles at his own joke. 

But Tubbo's not in the little cave under their home, or the corner he likes to sharpen his weapons in, or outside tending to the farm.

Tubbo is gone.

The realization flings itself into Tommy's heart - he stumbles, feels the bile rise in the back of his throat.

Tubbo's left.

Oh God. Oh God. This is his fault, isn't it? 

He should've known. Dream was right, Dream has always been right, hasn't he? Nobody cares about him, nobody cares about TommyInnit, because he's annoying and pathetic and _weak._ Could he have prevented this? He should've given Tubbo his armour, anything to compensate for having to put up with him, maybe given him his diamonds, or- 

He has nothing left to give, and Tubbo left him.

The compass around his throat is weighing him down, and Tommy struggles against the waves pulling him under but there's no escape from a disaster of nature, like explosions and earthquakes and the loss of friends.

His nails leave red trenches along his arms, a front line of desperate emotions pushed against the border consciousness, death of a new beginning staining fresh ground a deceptive red.

Tubbo's left him, alone, in the wreckage of the world.

Tubbo's left him and Tommy burns, a phoenix into the open air, stricken with grief.

Nothing but ash remains.

\--- 

Tubbo strides back home from where he met up with Ranboo - he had grown close to the new addition to their little server during their time in the cabinet, and liked to keep in contact with him even after the whole… _governments_ thing.

He does feel a little bad about Tommy, but reckons his best friend must've found something to waste the day on, even if it might've been a little boring.

_(He knows so little, the pawn, only moving forward in straight lines.)_

What he doesn't expect is Tommy on the floor, craters of tear stains and choked breaths of grief filling the empty space of a place never having the chance to be a home.

"Tommy? What's wrong?" 

Tommy lifts his head slightly, eyes blurry and unseeing and _dead,_ so cold in the warm torchlight.

"Tubbo? Why did you leave me? Why did- why did you never visit me? You left me all alone out there and I was so scared and I needed you, but you never came. Why?" 

Hysteria, the feeling of claws burying themselves in his flesh - Tubbo looks at his best friend and sees a child raised on warfare, a mirage built on bloodshed and held together by violence. He sees the fraying strings cut through by loneliness, and envisions himself holding the scissors.

"Dream told me you hated me. He said you never wanted to see me again, that you threw away your compass. And when I finally realized that he had to be lying, he convinced all of us you had… killed yourself. I'm sorry, Tommy. I was a horrible friend, but the past is dead and gone and I can only promise to do better. You're my best friend. I care about you so much." 

"Promise?" 

Tubbo smiles, a soft thing in the face of utter hopelessness, and links their pinkies.

"Promise." 

They fall asleep like that, on the stone floor of their childhood, nothing left of previous lives but scars and the terror gripping frozen limbs in a dream. But tonight, the moon kisses the lashes of two friends, and their sleep stays sound, and soft in the microcosm of their love for each other, for life.

\---

And one golden morning, Tommy and Tubbo stand over the crater of their childhood, and watch the ashen landscape become glowing red with a rising sun.

They stand, they breathe. They're alive.

This victory is quiet, and ultimately wordless in its litany - the sun hits their faces and they live on, brilliantly as a diamond caught in light. 

Although some wounds have not yet healed, all the hurt and contempt flows out of drying eyes - a few more skeletons buried at the bottom of a crater, a few more pasts buried by rubble and smoke.

And with the past behind them, and an endless universe of choice marking their future, all turns a little brighter, a little more colourful - hopefulness in technicolor distorts what's left of the grayscale calls of haunting cliff sides.

They turn, and walk back to Tommy's house when the last bit of red has given away to blue in the sky, and it feels a little like closure, a little like saying goodbye - the dreams of their younger selves can now finally rest, peacefully, under blue skies and setting suns.

The sun hits their faces, and Tommy absorbs every bit of glowing light - his soul rests warm against the hot stone of his skin, a comfortable thing built on love and the willingness to go on.

_(Build windows in the cracked residue of your brokenness; so that the light may shine in once again.)_

Tubbo smiles, and Tommy smiles back at him. They'll be okay.

\---

Held together by sinew and string, Tommy had looked onto the world, and seen nothing but the stardust of his veins, the glitter of blood production.

A machine built on muscles and bone, crafted for war - calculate your next movement, think of battlefields as chessboards; a battle of wits, more so than brawn, in the end. Military positions drawn as freckles across raised skin, Tommy had failed. 

_(He's rash, and emotional, and everything the perfect warrior is not supposed to be.)_ If you know the enemy, and you know yourself, history echoes somewhere, and Tommy smiles - he's not sure if he knows either anymore.

He is no longer that soldier, no longer the boy in the caravan, with dreams larger than life itself - no longer do his steps devour the land he walks on, no longer does his breath cause hurricanes. 

Someday, he might've believed himself to be broken, rotten like a fruit of summer forgotten - now, he sees the future as a winding path through a brilliant meadow, rolled out like a stripe of cotton. It's distantly peaceful in its imaginary, dreamlike way - a figure makes his way through, punctuating each passing second with a desperate step. 

This Tommy is older, scarred and echoing the peace of the meadow with waves of agonizing silence- a silent litany, as a prayer, lifted into the heavens.

(Another person follows.) 

He's young, blonde and white cheeked in his desperation (and recognizing himself is difficult like this, jigsaw puzzles with no edges searing the fraying end of his coat); companion piece to the god of skies and oceans, ever hooded in a traveller's coat, distantly familiar in the way of broken hearts and forgotten messages.

_(Wilbur. Always, always Wilbur.)_

Tommy and _oh_ , he's so infinitely younger here - Tommy, so loved that from one country there, came more lament than for all deaths to come, valleys of despair yawning into open-air agonized skies, with their own twisted stars - so greatly they had loved him. 

Now, he walks next to the god of falling and flying and drowning in the same breath, step constricted by the blue coat (always too long), so deep within himself glazed eyes do not feel the familiarity of green meadows and following into another's footsteps.

Death grasps him so fully, he does not realize its grip. He's like rotten fruit, like empty rooms, like dust under cabinets - he's a mirage of a past never to be reached again, so when the god gently pulls him to a stop, he does not need to hear the words to start walking back.

"He's turned around." 

The valley shatters, and Tommy watches himself walk back into the abyss - blood takes root, and a silver lake reflects blue eyes for but a second - with something like a smile on his face; warped and twisted, like the valley of souls, like losing a part of himself.

_(Carefully unfeeling, Tommy had climbed to the heavens - and feeling all too much, watched life crawl by normally below.)_

Far away, before the shining exit gates, Tommy realizes that such younger echoes of himself had died eons ago, on shaky towers or hidden in barrels, but that what resides in his body now is so much stronger, so much more loved.

He leaves the iron grip of death's gates (like shaking fingers, placed over a button) behind, and blinks the monochrome from his eyes. 

\--- 

There is no easy way into the heavy machinery of the heart.

Yet one evening, Tommy lays his head into the blooming mess of weeds beneath him, and watches Tubbo sleep next to him.

Bees are buzzing, and the wind sways the powerless stems of flowers in reckless waves. 

There's a flower crown resting lightly on his head, a promise of forevermore, and a sudden lightness in his chest - like someone had pulled out all the rusting metal and decayed steel, and left behind only blooming fields of flowers and patches of moss for his bones.

Tubbo snores lightly. 

Tommy smiles, and then starts laughing.

The wind pushes his hair out of his eyes, and grants him privilege to millions of silver dots kissing the darkness of the sky - it's soft, and vivacious, and privately, Tommy thinks he's never seen a prettier thing in his life. 

\--- 

**Author's Note:**

> HEYY Y'ALL IT'S ME AGAIN. BET U MISSED ME.
> 
> so, one day i was thinking to myself: "wow, dsmp!tommy's and tubbo's relationship sure is interesting, i wonder how things could've gone a little different. well, i guess we'll never know!"  
> and then i remembered i am a writer. this is what i'm supposed to do. so i made this :D 
> 
> this story should probably be considered the prequel to "survivors of the 16th" bc it explains how Tommy and Tubbo end up in Tommy's old base, but can be reads as a standalone anyway! 
> 
> the title is taken from a famous ww1 poem called "flanders fields" - i thought it fit quite well bc it encapsulates what i wanted to express with this; the tragedy of children fighting wars, but also the peace they can finally find after the death of their nation and the death of their leader: "between the crosses" in a way! 
> 
> (also can u tell i'm obsessed with the story of orpheus and eurydice?? also with having characters confront past versions of themselves as a plot device lmao. btw if u saw me take lines from other fics and recycle them for this one, No You Didn't.) 
> 
> follow me on [twitter!!](https://twitter.com/RANB00TAN)
> 
> hhh i think that's all! leave comments & kudos to be my meow meows (/j)


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